O Crematório de Caça às Esposas do Jovem Mestre do Norte
Na sombra de uma metrópole agitada, uma história de amor intrincada e complexa se desenrola silenciosamente. Duan Li, a joia da família Duan, é forçada por interesses familiares a entrar no salão de casamentos com Bei Mo, o líder da família Bei. Ela, que na superfície parece indiferente a esta aliança, na verdade esconde intenções maliciosas, ocultando um plano profundo e desconhecido. Bei Mo, um magnata comercial conhecido por sua frieza e astúcia, é gradualmente atraído pelo seu encanto único nas relações diárias com Duan Li. À medida que os dois corações se aproximam lentamente, eles parecem ter encontrado apoio um no outro. Mas a sorte parece sempre gostar de brincar, um mal-entendido como uma tempestade violenta empurrará seu casamento para a beira da ruptura. O divórcio torna-se o final inevitável para eles...
O Crematório de Caça às Esposas do Jovem Mestre do Norte
“I would rather die than marry that block of ice, Bei Mo!” Duan Fei gritted her teeth, hurling the glass of red wine against the wall. The crimson liquid splashed down like her own turbulent mood—restless and suffocating.
The marriage alliance between the Duan and Bei families was supposed to be a powerful union, a strategic business arrangement. So why did it feel like she was being thrown into a pit of fire?
She was the distinguished heiress of the Duan family, with countless suitors at her beck and call. Why should she marry a man she’d only met three times, who wore a face like a funeral mask each time?
Yet her father was resolute—this marriage would happen, no matter what.
Today was her wedding day with Bei Mo.
The banquet hall glittered with opulence, fragrant with perfume and alive with clinking glasses and whispered conversations. But to Duan Fei, it all seemed nothing but a farce.
She sat rigidly, submitting to the stylist’s ministrations, the flawless makeup concealing her inner agitation.
“The bride is here!” someone called out. Duan Fei instantly felt countless searching gazes pin her under their light, leaving her nowhere to hide.
At the end of the red carpet stood Bei Mo, his face cold as ever, as if carved from ice. He was like a beautifully crafted marionette—handsome features, upright posture, but devoid of any warmth.
The ceremony that followed was a torment for Duan Fei: exchanging rings, cutting the cake, toasting guests… Each step was like sitting on pins and needles.
Bei Mo kept his frosty
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